


Yahweh

by protego



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protego/pseuds/protego
Summary: "They all cry out to him. They’ve given him so many names, over the centuries.Yahweh, El Shaddai, Almighty God, Father, Alpha and Omega, Jehovah. And he hears their prayers — not just the humans, but the angels too."Snapshots from Chuck Shurley's long, long, life. Inspired by the season 14 finale.





	Yahweh

Every thousand years or so, he and Death meet up. 

Officially, Death is locked away — bound, like the other Horsemen — but they both know that won’t hold him. It’s just for appearances. 

They usually catch up after Death has had a big shipment. The Black Plague, the American Civil War, the Titanic, the two World Wars. Death can be a witty guy. He’s better company than Joshua anyway. They’re as old as each other, but, unlike him, Death doesn’t get lonely. He has his reapers, but he says they’re no company. Busybodies, just like angels. All worker bees, rank and file employees. Death understands what it’s like to have no one who is your equal, even if it doesn’t bother him. 

After some natural disaster — neither of them can remember what it was — Death says to him, completely unprovoked,  _You know, one day, I’ll reap you too_. 

And there’s nothing he can think to say to that. 

* * *

 

Listlessness. 

Another world. 

He leaves the colour yellow out of this one for no reason at all, and makes the sun dark red, so everything is bathed in scarlet. It’s a carbon copy of his first earth, the first one the Darkness let him finish. Humans, animals, fish, whatever. The only difference is that this one is missing yellow. 

Why? Just because. 

It bores him as soon as it’s  finished, so he abandons it and never goes back. A draft world thrown into a cosmic wastepaper basket. 

* * *

There are times when he considers scrapping his original completed world. It would be so easy. The earth is teeming with humans, crawling, bustling, swelling, with life. Some believe in him, some don’t. He doesn’t care either way. He made them all. Building and building in infinite solitude. Watching them, hearing their prayers. Sometimes, he answers. 

Humanity bounds forwards with or without his intervention — progress begets progress. His machine is self-propelling. All of them are, in their own ways. 

Whenever he considers destroying his first world, just for something to do, he distracts himself by leaving. Letting it fend for itself, letting it finds its way for a while. And the feeling, the urge to just decimate it, always passes. 

* * *

Time rolls on immeasurably. And he builds and builds and builds and — 

A world populated by animals. A colourless world. A universe where the moon is the only inhabited planet. Humans, angels, bird people, creatures with no eyes, no organs, no skin. Hybrids. In one, the sky is vibrant purple, one world moves in reverse, one earth is flat. 

Always creating, discarding, always moving on. 

* * *

The only angel he talks to is Joshua. He doesn’t need to be present — he simply calls out to Joshua from wherever he is. Joshua’s a good listener. He doesn’t ask too many questions, the way the other angels do. And Joshua keeps him updated while he’s away. He doesn’t know when he was last in Heaven. 

Joshua reassures him that earth is fine, so he doesn’t go back for an unknown amount of time. His first creation is ticking over. He doesn’t need to see it. It’s already disappointed him. 

* * *

In one world, a world which developed faster than his first, there are exact replicas of his original children. Michael, Lucifer, the other archangels, the Heavenly host.  


Eventually, he decides to let the Apocalypse play out there, just like he’s intended for a few hundred years. Lucifer, Michael, angelic war, the whole nine yards. He’s more involved than he has been in millennia, since this world first slithered out of the primordial soup. 

Michael kills Lucifer, as the story plays out chapter by chapter. His children go to war. Humans learn how to murder angels. And, for a while, he’s invested. 

But that, like everything, fades away. And he leaves that world too. 

* * *

Before recorded time, in a language without words — a form of communication he hasn’t had for billions of years — his sibling used to ask him why he created things. He could never explain it. So, he tried to show the Darkness his Light. He tried over and over to show her the beauty in creation, the fascination in making something from nothing. But he could never articulate why he needed more than just the two of them, why he needed lesser beings. 

Creation just spills out of him, endlessly. He is  _Being_. And that’s just what he is.  


* * *

They all cry out to him. They’ve given him so many names, over the centuries.  _Yahweh_ ,  _El Shaddai_ ,  _Almighty God_ ,  _Father, Alpha and Omega_ ,  _Jehovah_. And he hears their prayers — not just the humans, but the angels too. He can tune them out, if he wants to, and he usually does. But sometimes, he listens. Mothers sobbing for dead children, war-torn nations shouting, human grief and misery and anger. So much pain and suffering, across so many worlds. 

And they still pray to him to fix it, to heal them, to comfort them _. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani_? _My God, my God, why have you forsaken me_? 


End file.
